


This Is All Yours

by mckayla (steveromanov)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Getting Back Together, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sharon is Steve's sister, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveromanov/pseuds/mckayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The list of dumb shit Steve has done is long, but he's pretty sure that not coming clean to his family about being dumped four months ago and instead promising them that his (former) girlfriend will attend his sister's upcoming wedding with him will just about top that list of dumb shit for, well, ever.</p><p>Whoever said that exes can be friends afterwards was a big fat liar, but dates to a wedding? For Steve's sake, it'll have to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, it's been a while! As of late I've been in more of a reading mood than a writing mood, and then a procrastinating mood, and then a flat-out "ignore Word Document" mood. But then I got the sudden urge to write a multichapter AU, and here we are. Prepare for inconsistent chapter lengths and updates, but I'm very determined to see this one to the end.

It’s as routine as mandatory weekly phone conversations with his mother go, which doesn’t say much but offers a wide variety of topics, including Sarah Rogers asking her son how his “doctor” job is going—“I’m a _paramedic_ , Ma,” and, “I know, I know, but sometimes I like to pretend that you’re my very own Derek Shepherd,” which Steve sadly knows the reference to because of his recent lonely, after-work Grey’s Anatomy binge marathon—and then asking him if he’s been eating well—“ _yes_ , Ma, I’m eating fine,” even though he isn’t, because he pairs said binge marathon with a variety of TV dinners or takeout—and then, finally, going on for around ten minutes about how much she loves and misses him and _there are plenty of hospitals upstate, you know, you could just move back home and—_ and Steve, with the finesse that comes from having to juggle a loving but occasionally overwhelming single mother for most of his life, deftly changes the topic from that particularly one every single time.

In between those topics, there is also his Ma going on about her recently cultivated garden, though Steve doubts that that particular hobby will last long considering their conversation the week before greatly consisted of her going on about her venture into painting. The week before _that_ she’d told him photography, though a covert phone call from his sister revealed that she’d actually gotten a gun license and had been enthusiastically destroying glass bottles and cans in the backyard, which just resulted in Steve calling his Ma again and making her promise to find a much safer pastime. And to make sure the gun was kept out of his Gran’s hands, because while the woman was pushing ninety, she had a penchant for trouble and he doubted that they needed a bullet-related incident in the wake of his older sister’s wedding.

As of late, that last bit has also inched its way into his conversations with his Ma, though not really as a _direct_ topic, but rather distracted train of thoughts voiced—re: yelled at the top of her lungs—by his mother during the middle of a sentence or a story, whether she’s the one speaking or he (though it’s usually her; he found out a long time ago that it’s just best to let her talk freely, because eventually she’ll dictate the conversation anyway). Sharon’s been engaged to her fiancée for what feels like forever, or maybe that’s just because Steve’s had to deal with these bellowed, wedding-related tidbits for fifty weekly phone calls now, but the wedding is set to come up two weeks from today and he’s desperate to get it done and over with. He loves his family, he does, but they are loud, and crazy, and Steve honestly doesn’t have the room in his car for all of the clothes and food his Ma will make him take back to the city once the whole thing’s over. Also, he’s not entirely sure Gran and that gun is totally clear.

For now, Steve patiently waits as his Ma’s voice slightly floats away from the receiver, indicating that she’s holding it away from her face to speak/shout at whoever happens to be in the same room as her in the moment. Based on what little he can hear, he guesses that it’s Sharon, because she is the only one in the family besides Steve who doesn’t speak/shout back, or in general.

“— _IT’S FINE, IT’S FINE; WILL’S PARENTS CAN STAY IN THE GUEST ROOM AND YOU AND WILL CAN RELOCATE TO YOUR OLD ROOM. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A TWIN BED, SHARON, YOU CAN MAKE IT WORK—OH, STOP, I’M SURE HE WON’T CALL OFF THE WEDDING JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE A LEONARDO DICAPRIO POSTER HANGING ON THE WALL—_ oh, honey, this whole wedding has got your sister out of her blonde head.”

Distantly, he hears, “Is that Steve?”

And then, “Oh, no you don’t, this is _my_ weekly phone call, and I’m not wasting the only one I get until the next seven days on you two bickering over one thing or another.”

“We don’t bicker, Ma, we have sibling debates,” Sharon says, her voice getting louder as she apparently walks closer to the phone. Steve doesn’t doubt that the brief struggle he hears is Sharon fighting to put the call on speaker. In the dawning age of smartphones, the two Rogers siblings have largely forgotten how to work their mom’s ancient flip phone. “Hey, little brother.”

“Only in the chronological sense,” he replies.

“Yes, yes, we all know you’ll always be defensive over how dinky you used to be.” He can practically see her eye roll. “And how secretly proud you are over your Neanderthal size now.”

“You’re just upset you can’t hold things over my head anymore.”

“I still can, theoretically. Like that time I caught you—”

“Okay, shut up, I get it,” he cuts her off, face reddening. Inevitably, his mom asks, “Caught him what? Sharon?”

“Nothing, Ma. So, Steve, when’re you planning on coming back home? Or are you going to show up the day of the wedding and then bolt immediately after?”

“Actually,” he starts tersely, “I’m coming up this weekend.”

“So does this mean I get to have my weekly phone call in person?” His Ma asks eagerly. His chest sort of tugs at that, both in warmth and guilt, because god knows he doesn’t make a good enough effort to go back home more often. Still, he’s not entirely sure his old Camaro can handle the trip upstate more than once a year, and he’s certainly not trying to take a work car. For one, it would be an ambulance.

“Yes, Ma, that’s what it means,” he replies, and then hastily adds, “And we’ll have plenty of time to talk about all sorts of things, so you don’t have to bombard me as soon as I show up.”

Sharon snorts. “Good luck with that.”

“Nonsense. It’s been months since the last time I saw my son. If I want to read him the entire phone book on his first night back home, then that’s what I’ll do.” Steve stifles a groan. He doesn’t doubt it. “And, god, it’s been ages since I’ve even seen Natasha. She wasn’t able to come down for Christmas, remember? You never told me how she liked the quilt I knitted her.”

Steve pauses at that, hand tightening dangerously around his phone pressed to his ear. _Natasha_. His eyes dart to the very quilt mentioned, the one folded and stored beneath his coffee table, the one Natasha hadn’t taken with her all those months ago, the one he can’t quite bring himself to toss out because of the amount of time his Ma must’ve spent on it.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

He does remember that Christmas. Natasha had been in Russia touring with her company, so she wasn’t able to visit his family for the holidays with him like the year before. She was supposed to be down back in time for them to spend the New Year together, but then she’d made it big. Discovered by some Russian bigwig. Her tour got prolonged a few more months; Valentine’s Day passed. When they Skyped she _was_ visibly regretful about that, and she made promises to make it down in time for his birthday. But then she caught the Bolshoi’s eye, something she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl, something she’d shyly admitted she _longed_ for one evening late into the night, huddled up in his side, fingers tracing shapes on his sternum. At the time, he thought he understood that longing. When he was a boy, he wanted to be an astronaut. Things didn’t work out. But in retrospect, considering that he’s no longer sharing this very apartment with that very woman but living in it _alone_ , he understands that he never _understood_ at all.

After Valentine’s Day, the calls got scarcer. March was damn near barren. In April, Natasha’s career had officially taken off, leading her all over the world. Also in April, she’d made one final call to him, one full of genuine apologizes that eventually led to the inevitable end of their relationship. His birthday passed without her. And that was that.

Actually, no, that was not _that_ , because for the first time in his life, Steve Rogers had been in love with a woman. And that woman’s dreams had come true, but at the sake of their relationship. He can’t fault her for that, _doesn’t_ fault her for that, but she was damn near perfect in every sense of the word, and not just because she was beautiful and smart and funny and talented, but because his hard-headed, stubborn family actually _accepted_ her. Loved her. Still loves her, apparently, because through the addled haze of mind, he can faintly make out Sharon and his Ma talking about her. Her hair. Her career. Her long-standing relationship with Steve that is no longer long-standing or a relationship.

He’d put off telling them that they’d broken up for this very reason. Before Natasha had come along, his weekly phone calls with his mother had not consisted of the previous topics so much as the one topic that only seemed to matter to her for a very long time: _have you found yourself a nice girl yet?_

When the time came where he finally answered _yes_ , you would’ve thought his Ma won the lottery. Because there’s only one thing better than an Irish mother finding out that her Irish boy has found a nice, lovely young lady (bonus if she’s Irish) to spend his life with, and that’s if they have at least two Irish or half-Irish kids. Hell, even his Gran, with all of the energy her elderly self could muster, practically jumped for joy.

God, his _Gran_. She and Natasha were surprisingly close. It probably had something to do with Nat being the one girl Steve had ever dated who wasn’t immediately put-off by the idea of an eighty-eight year old lady with the enthusiasm and mischief belonging to that of a fourteen year old boy, as well as the interrogation skills of a well-trained and seasoned detective that she somehow hereditarily passed down to her daughter, Sarah. Nat and Gran were alike, in some ways. If she wanted to, Nat could make a grown man piss his pants. Gran already had, on multiple occasions, some of who included Steve’s grandfather, his late father, and probably Sharon’s fiancée.

Steve presses the hell of his palm into his eye and lets out a groan. It’s enough to pull his Ma and sister out of whatever Natasha-related conversation they’re having and ask, “Steve?”

“What?” He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

_Tell them. Tell them the truth. Tell them you’ve been living alone for four months and haven’t seen Natasha for even longer than that. Or just lie. Say she’s in Russia again. They’ll believe that, right? You’ll get shit for showing up at your sister’s wedding stag, but tough. Or… or…_

Hadn’t Tony told him the other day that Natasha was back in Manhattan?

 _No. Don’t even think about it, Rogers._ His conscience is too late, however, because Steve is already recalling his conversation with Tony from a couple of days ago. Tony had come over to watch the game, and usually that just consists of the two of them sitting on Steve’s couch drinking beers and putting away pizzas while yelling at the TV, but there was a commercial playing and Tony’s eye caught on the quilt beneath the coffee table. And then he’d casually-but-purposely mentioned that Natasha’s tour had ended, that she was back in New York, and that she’d linked up with Tony’s girlfriend Pepper for lunch the week prior. And if Nat’s talking to Pepper, then she’s definitely been hanging around Clint. Clint, who Steve works with. Clint, who had mentioned nothing. Not a word.

And Natasha, whose number is still in Steve’s phone, _is just one call away_.

Steve has done a lot of dumb shit in his life. Ask anyone close to him, and they’ll tell you that he’s practically the _king_ of dumb shit. He doesn’t lack one bit in bravery, but it seems to go in hand with _doing dumb shit_. The list is long.

Unfortunately, it’s about to get longer.

In one extensive gust of air that can hardly pass as a sentence let alone a collection of words, he says, “ _Yes we’ll be there she can’t wait to see you she loved the quilt Ma tell Gran I said hi I’ll see you guys this Friday I gotta go love you bye!_ ” and hangs up.

And with shaky fingers, before he can psych himself out of it and dig himself into an even deeper hole (or crawl out of the shallow one he’s already in, he doesn’t know), he scrolls through his contacts and allows himself three seconds of hesitation in the form of his thumb hovering over Natasha’s contact name.

Those seconds pass. He takes a deep breath, then presses call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind comments and reviews!

The call is unexpected, rather brief, and hard to completely understand considering that Steve— _Steve_ —barely stops to gather a breath before she gives her answer (which is really one of two things she even got to say to him, the other being _hello?_ ) and abruptly hangs up the phone. It happens so fast that she blinks at the darkened screen of her phone for a minute, a multitude of emotions running through her mind. _Guilt_ is chief among them. The guilt is always there whenever she sees something that reminds her of Steve or hears something that reminds her of Steve or even _thinks_ of Steve. Hell, she’d hardly been able to get through her lunch with Pepper last week without drowning in the need to ask about him, how was he doing, _did he find someone new_ , before Pepper took pity on her and, with a sad, small smile, said, “He’s doing fine, honey.”

The next day, she’d finally broken down and asked Clint, too. He’d said, “He’s a fuckin’ mess, Nat.”

Natasha is so used to being _sure_. About herself, about her life. It’s really the only thing she had for a long while, her own sense of independence. Being passed on from foster home to foster home instills that in a young girl, hardens it as she grows. She supposes she had her dreams, too. Foster children really knew how to do that. Dreaming of being adopted into a family, into a _good_ family. Dreaming of having a better life. Dreaming of being _whoever_ you want.

Nat got her dream, but at the sake of being sure of herself. Because as soon as her career soared, she was confronted with a whole mess of decisions that she just wasn’t sure how to handle. And the more she made them, the more she made them _badly_ , the deeper she sunk into that pit of self-doubt. She’d been at war with herself. She still is. Because she’d had a good thing going in her life, and she’d all but tossed it aside at the first sign of fame.

And now that good thing has come _back_ into her life. The timber of Steve’s voice on the phone had almost haunted her, even though he had been speaking rapidly and therefore at a few higher octaves than she remembered was usual for him. She doesn’t know if she’s being afforded a second chance with him. She doesn’t know if she even _deserves_ a second chance (if you asked her, she doesn’t, but god, would she like to). She doesn’t know why she says yes.

And, again, she doesn’t know why she doesn’t think that this is a terrible, terrible idea.

The sound of her phone beeping startles her so much ( _get a grip, Romanoff_ ) that she nearly knocks over the basket of laundry she’d been folding before that fateful phone call. When she glances down at the screen, she sees that it’s Steve again, but this time a text message.

_I realized that I kind of forgot to arrange any actual details with you about the whole thing, but we sort of need to be at my mom’s by Friday? So I’ll pick you up at your place?_

And then: _If you live in the same apartment, that is._

And another: _Sorry. I just assumed._

And _another_ : _Or you could come to my place. If you want. I’m at the same address. I don’t know. Whatever works for you._ She smiles sadly at that. Once upon a time, even before they dated, things were never so awkward between them. Conversation came easy in their relationship. No choppy sentences, no scrambling to please one another. They just knew. It’s like all of the comfort that had built between the two of them was swept away in the meagerly long four months since their breakup.

And that is completely Nat’s fault.

She types out a reply. _Okay._

_Okay?_

_You can pick me up at my place._

_Oh. Alright. Noon?_

_Noon is fine._

There’s a brief delay before another text comes from him. _Okay. And thanks. You’re doing me a huge favor, Nat._

If it’s ridiculous that her heart soars at the old nickname (he’s hardly the only person to ever use it), then Natasha can live with that. Still, her fingers are sort of shaky when she types out, _It’s the least I can do, Steve,_ and taps send.

He doesn’t reply. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

*** 

Friday comes quickly. By the time Natasha wakes, there’s already a text from Steve on her phone gently reminding her of their… _situation_ , for lack of a better word, like she’d forgotten in the three days since he’d asked her. Like she _could_ have forgotten it at all, because he and it are the only two things that have been on her mind since earlier that week—scratch that, since she returned to the city—and it’s got her stomach in an endless twist of knots. Still, it doesn’t occur to her that she should probably back out of this arrangement before a bigger mess is made.

That is until it’s five past noon and Steve is knocking on her apartment door.

Suddenly she’s rooted to the spot, and it’s not simply because she’s just now realizing what she’d signed up for. It’s because she suddenly realizes how much _time_ has passed since she last saw Steve, and not just in the form of that contact photo she refuses to delete. Four months may mark the amount of time since she’d truly fucked up and lost him, but she’d been away from him for a whole lot longer than that prior. Almost a half a year. They’d Skyped, sure. She’d seen his face through shoddy internet reception, albeit not very often due to time zone complications. But now, as she stares at her front door and practically imagines Steve fidgeting on the other side, she realizes that this will be the first time she’s seeing him since they were still a couple.

It’s a pathetic thought, brought up by pathetic feelings. Natasha hates it.

She quickly recovers from her momentary panic and walks over to the door, allowing herself an uninterrupted glance at him through the peep hole for all of one second—he’s so large that he hardly fits in the small circle, but it’s enough to let her know that she’d been right about the fidgeting—before taking in a deep breath and opening it. And for a moment, she just stares at him, because he doesn’t immediately notice that she’s standing before him now and is instead preoccupied with wringing his hands and gnawing on his lower lip. She forces herself not to focus on what that last bit reminds her of, but unbidden images of her wrapped up in him and him wrapped up in her flashes through her mind before she can stop them.

Steve’s head snaps up so quickly that for a brief, ridiculous second Nat fears that he can read her mind. But his face simply settles into that of a grimace and a smile, an expression that is both strange and endearing, and looks back at her like a deer in headlights.

It dawns on her that maybe she’s not the only one being abruptly hit with the reality of their situation.

“Hi,” she says when it becomes clear that he won’t.

His shoulders slightly hunch up towards his ears like a spring starting to coil, but the wrinkle between his eyebrows disappears. It’s minimal, but it’s something.

“Hi,” he echoes.

From there she assumes that Steve doesn’t know what to do, because he practically curls in on himself like a hermit crab.

She forces all traces of tension from her face and replaces it with a small, tentative smile. She doesn’t make a move to offer him inside—she decides that would be counterproductive and add even more awkwardness into the mix; for one, her apartment is filled with as much memories of their time together as his—but simply gestures over her shoulder and steps back from the door.

“Let me just get my luggage, okay?”

“Huh?” His head jerks like she’s just told him that she’s going to fling herself off the fire escape. At this rate, she’s starting to consider it, but Steve collects himself rather quickly and nods—which, really, is just another jerk of his head. “Oh. Sure. Okay.”

Thankfully she’d left her luggage propped up against the side of her couch after she’d packed it earlier that week, so she doesn’t leave Steve alone for long before she’s walking into the hall with him. Turning her back on him to close and lock the door leaves her feeling oddly and terrifyingly defenseless, like if she takes her eyes off of him for one moment then he’ll see how nervous she actually is. Because really, she’s currently in no better state than he is; she’s just better at hiding it. Immensely better, because when she turns around and meets his gaze, he’s practically crowded against the other wall, looking as if he’s afraid that she’ll touch him.

Again, that pathetic surge of self-loathing washes over her, but she makes herself shake it off. She knows none of it shows on her face. Instead she tips her head toward the stairs in a gentle indication that she’s all set to leave.

Fortunately, he walks in front of her. She lets her mask slip for the trip down to the first floor, letting her eyes roam over every inch of his posterior as if to remind herself that he is really _there_ , shoulders set into a rigidly straight line and discomfort practically radiating off his body in waves, but there nonetheless. She’s not dreaming. Because as cliché as it sounds, Steve is always in her dreams— _has_ always been in her dreams since he walked into her life and hasn’t left even when she walked out of his.

Depending on how Natasha’s feeling, it’s either a good reason to fall into bed at night or a good reason not to.

All things considered though, Steve looks good. She’d noticed the evident _hurt_ in his eyes when she first opened her door—and even if it’d been less obvious, she’d still know it was there. Even if Clint hadn’t said anything, even if she hadn’t been able to read into Pepper’s gentle, remorseful smiles, even if Tony hadn’t bitterly told her _you screwed him up, Romanoff_ the third day she came back from Russia (and the third day she’d spent awkwardly and tensely dancing around the subject of _Steve_ ), she’d still know, because there is nothing in the world Steve Rogers can do to hide anything from her—but he looks good. Tired, maybe; hurt, _definitely_ , but good. _Physically_ good. No amount of pain or guilt can discredit the fact that Steve is, quite frankly, gorgeous, nor can it stop Natasha from quietly admiring that fact as they make their way down to the lobby.

Still, as soon as she’s no longer safely walking behind him, she averts her gaze. And it lands directly on to Steve’s light blue ’67 Camaro, beat-up and barely put-together, but also shiny and familiar. She can’t help the small smile that tugs on her lips. God, how she simultaneously loved and hated this car.

She’s not sure what makes it go away: her smile or the car or the memories it brings that somehow don’t sting as much as anything else related to their past relationship, but Steve smiles too, and a small sliver of tension dissipates. “It was either this or public transportation.”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Are you sure it’s capable of making the trip upstate?”

He walks over to the car and pats the roof affectionately. “She’ll make do.”

Natasha arches a skeptical eyebrow but starts forward nonetheless. After a briefly awkward shuffle with her luggage due to uncertainty from both parties, she lets Steve take her suitcase and load it into the trunk as she slides into the passenger seat, allowing herself a momentary lapse into the memories that come with this car. Trips to the beach, all the windows rolled down because the air conditioning had been broken for years; going through the old cassette tapes Steve had collected during high school, laughing at his music taste but loudly singing along nevertheless; late-night ventures for burgers and shakes, tossing fries at one another across the bench seat and swiping ketchup off the corners of each other’s lips; holding hands in the space between them, too tired to talk after a long drive or even longer day; kissing. Lots and lots of kissing. And, sometimes, sex.

Nat doesn’t jump when the driver’s door suddenly opens, but it’s a damn near thing.

She forces all thoughts of what used to happen in this very car out of her head as Steve settles into his seat. Her face feels warm, but she could very well blame that on the weather. However, he doesn’t seem to notice her disquiet as he buckles up and slides the key into the ignition, because when he finally turns to her, his eyebrows raised, he doesn’t ask if she’s okay, but if she’s all set.

Her response is a wordless nod, and that’s all there is before the car is suddenly vibrating around them and their insensible, bad idea of a plan (if one would even call it that) is commenced.

Natasha is prepared for a couple hours’ drive worth of silence, and she’s okay with that. She’s not sure it’s _much_ better than trying to make awkward, spotty conversation until they’re actually forced to pretend like they’re still a happy couple, but she is positive that it’s a step up even so. Besides, the car is loud enough that it overpowers whatever tension is still lingering between the two of them, as if the roar of the engine and the strength of the vibrations under their feet can beat any awkwardness into quiet submission until they’ve arrived at their destination and they’re walking on solid ground. That was one of the things Nat had always loved about this car: it had a way of drowning everything else out, until it was just you and it and the road stretched out in front of you. It had the ability to send anyone sitting inside of it into a state of euphoria, like they were a part of a scene from a book or a movie coming to life. There was just something inherently… _romantic_ about the Camaro and being a lucky passenger in side of it.

But like she said, she had a love/hate relationship with the car. The one thing Natasha hated about it?

It always, without a doubt, broke down.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Well, the Camaro allows them around an hour and a half on the road before the engine sputters nastily and dies. It even has the consideration to be in a close enough distance to a shoulder when it croaks so that Steve can use the last of the car’s energy to guide it off the interstate, which is all well and good because Natasha’s been present to watch Steve push the Camaro off the road many times before. And not that she wouldn’t mind the view—because she definitely wouldn’t—but they don’t exactly need anything more added to their steadily growing heap of problems at the moment. While Steve slams the parking break down and gets out to pretend he knows what’s going on beneath the hood of his car, Natasha wonders if there’s anything by now that _can_ go worse.

She finds out the answer to that after five minutes.

“So, it looks like we just need to jump the engine,” Steve tells her through the passenger window. It’s the closest they’ve been to one another in a very long time, but Nat doesn’t let herself linger on that—or the fact that she can see the smattering of thin gold hair lining his forearms, or smell his cologne, or hear the sound of his voice vibrating in his sternum. _She doesn’t_. “But Tony has my jumper cables and I highly doubt any New Yorker will be willing to stop and give us a hand out of the kindness of our hearts. Been there, done that countless of times.”

Natasha nods; she’d been there and done that _with_ him countless of times.

“Fortunately we’re only about forty-five minutes away from my mom’s house,” he adds, though there’s a slight wince to his features that doesn’t strike her as related to whatever’s going on between them, but rather to something he’s not telling her.

“But?” She prompts after a moment. He doesn’t answer. “Steve, I _know_ that look.”

The color that rises to his cheeks is so familiar that it nearly makes her smile, though she’s not sure why he’s blushing in the first place—getting caught omitting the truth or the familiarity in her statement or both.

After another beat, Steve replies, “But I just got off the phone with my ma and she said the cables are in Will’s car.” Natasha gives him a pointed look that prompts him to tack on the rest. “Which he and Sharon took to their appointment with the wedding planner ten minutes ago. Last minute stuff, but can’t be postponed or rescheduled. Not that Sharon wouldn’t, but then I would get an earful from her and ma both about finally selling this thing.”

“Not that they’d be wrong to suggest such a thing,” she replies. He shoots her a look that’s without malice before patting the hood of his car affectionately.

“You know why I don’t.”

She remembers why. This car had been Steve and his father’s pet project before he died; there was no way in hell that he’d ever get rid of it.

“So, what’re we doing? I’m guessing calling a tow service is out of the picture.” They’d left the city early enough to put weekend traffic behind them, but since they’ve been on the road for a while—and now stuck on that road—the flow of cars have started to grow congested.

Steve shakes his head. “We’ll wait for Will and Sharon, if that’s okay with you? An hour, two hours tops if Sharon drives instead of Will. You know she’s not the speed demon of the family.”

“That’d be Gran,” Natasha says with a smirk. It warrants a surprised laugh out of Steve, one that makes him flush again after he realizes it, and a pleasant warmth spreads through Nat’s chest. “Waiting’s fine,” she continues after a moment. “It’s not like the Camaro lacks for comfort.”

Steve seems satisfied with that, because he walks around the front of the car and climbs back inside, the car dipping with his weight. It falls quiet; not the same tension-filled silence that had seemed to plague them before, but the kind that makes you feel like you need to say something to fill it. It’s like the car door had been a comfortable barrier between them, but now that they’ve got nothing dividing them except a few inches of space, Nat feels fidgety. On edge. Like it’s forbidden now for her to sneak another glance in Steve’s direction.

It’s ridiculous.

She opens her mouth to say something. “Do y—”

“I think we should lay out some ground rules,” Steve says suddenly, eyes darting to her and then away again just as quickly. Natasha falls quiet and nods. It’s probably the one sensible thing they can do about this whole ordeal. “About this. And about…”

“Us,” Natasha finishes softly.

Steve nods before letting out a long breath. “Yeah. Look, I know I put you in a tough spot here but I sort of freaked out when my ma mentioned you coming, and—”

“Wait.” Natasha furrows her eyebrows. “Why would she just assume I was coming?”

That same wince from before falls back into place over Steve’s features. “Because I forgot to mention to them that we broke up?”

Her frown deepens. “Why?”

There’s a slight pause before he answers, “I was sort of preoccupied with other things, Nat,” in a slow, soft way that makes her avert her eyes guiltily. She understands now. _Preoccupied with trying to pull himself together enough to move on._

Before she can come up with some sort of apology, Steve speaks again, which is all well and good because she’s pretty sure it’s too late for apologies by now. “Hence why we need ground rules,” he adds, then rubs the back of his neck. “Though admittedly I’m not sure where to start.”

“Well, what are the basics on this sort of thing?”

“What, you mean asking your ex to be your date to your sister’s wedding because you don’t have the guts to just come out and tell them that you’re not together anymore? Even though—” He cuts himself off there. Natasha isn’t brave enough to ask what he was about to say. He lets out another sigh. “At the time, it just seemed less complicated this way. Pretend for a week as opposed to being assaulted by thousands of slightly insulting questions for a week. You know?”

“When you put it that way, I guess I do.” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “But you’ve always been a shit liar, so pulling this off is going to be hard.”

“Like I said, _hence_ the ground rules,” he replies faux-exasperatingly, making her smirk. “Or a cover story. Whatever.”

“A fake cover story for something that, once upon a time, was not fake but is now fake.” Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “If Tony were here, he’d crack an Inception joke.”

Steve scoffs. “He doesn’t have the right to. He didn’t even understand the movie.”

They laugh for a moment before Natasha says, “I think we might be avoiding discussing this ground rules thing.”

“Right. Ground rules. To keep the awkwardness to a minimum, although if that’s one of the rules, I’d say that it’s already been broken, so.” Steve tips his head back and stares at the peeling fabric on the ceiling of the car before tipping his head to look at her. “Second rule?”

Natasha contemplates for a whole minute before shaking her head. “I think if keeping awkwardness low is a key point here, then rules are sort of counterproductive. They’re just a reminder of… well, everything.” Steve bobs his head in agreement. “So, how about this: we can be friends, beneath all that everything. We don’t even have to pretend at that. I mean, people who date are friends.”

“Friends who aren’t dating don’t typically kiss,” he points out.

“Well, friends who _do_ date don’t typically find the excuse to kiss one another every ten seconds in a public setting,” she replies. “Unless you’re that one weird, disgustingly cute couple. Like Thor and Jane.” Another funny look from him and she clarifies, “Steve, when you and I dated we never kissed in front of your family, let alone our friends. It’d probably be suspicious if we amped up the PDA now. Just act natural. And even if I did say PDA was okay, then it’d just be another thing that’s counterproductive to the minimal-awkwardness goal.”

Steve stares at her—almost pointedly away from her mouth, but she doesn’t want to let herself believe that and what it may mean for one second. It’d just be another counterproductive thing on a growing list of counterproductive things, and Natasha thinks they’re starting to have their fill of those too.

“So, number’s two and three on our list of not-rules: be friends and no kissing.”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

Natasha tries for a smirk, but what comes out is far more pathetic in comparison. “Nothing about the two of us has ever been simple, Steve.”

He lets out one long, final sigh. “Yeah.” 

* * *

Steve’s sleep is usually dreamless. It’s a side-effect from his job; you come home from a shift that’s half a day long exhausted and unaware of all of your surroundings except for something that you can lay down and crash out for the remaining half-day on. Sometimes it’s a couch, sometimes it’s a bed; very rarely it’s a floor though less rarely it’s on your own two feet. The end goal is simply falling into a senseless mini coma until you start the process all over again—or, if you’re like Steve, waking up at ten p.m. to eat cold pizza and watch Grey’s Anatomy in your boxers.

This particular sleep lacks bone dead exhaustion, which probably explains the long-since forgotten sensation of dreaming.

Steve is unable to decide whether the fact that Natasha is the focal point of said dream is a good or bad thing, especially since it also happens to be a very real memory. So real that he feels her fingertips trailing over the stubble pebbling his jaw, the weight of her body on top of his, the feel of her toes pressing into his calves.

The sound of her voice as she says, “ _I love you, Steve Rogers_ ,” and the sound of his own as he says it back.

What’s most painful, however, is the memory of what he wanted to say after, what he wanted to _do_ after. The memory of that tiny, black velvet box wedged into one of his rarely-worn loafers at the bottom of their closet. The feel of it resting in the palm of his hand as he thought about what he would say when— _if_ —he ever presented to her, what the moment would be like. In the dream, the memory, with his fingers trailing down the ridges of her spine, with his chest rising beneath her folded hands, and with the question poised on the tip of his tongue, the moment had been nothing like what he’d imagined when bought the ring, which only meant that it was perfect.

But in the end, Steve didn’t ask. They fell asleep and he went to work and that perfect moment hadn’t waited for him to find his courage.

He’s not sure if it would’ve changed anything in the end. Hell, he’s not sure if Nat would’ve even said _yes_. She has stick-ups and views on life unlike any other, and that’s one of the things he’d loved about her while they were together, even if they could be inconvenient to things he wanted to do with her—the things he wanted to _say_ to her. Admitting that she loved him was hard enough for her to do, but accepting his hand in marriage? How was he supposed to know that that alone wouldn’t have scared her off in an instant? Was it better that it was her _career_ that had whisked her away as opposed to a fear of commitment?

In his dream, Steve still doesn’t ask her. Because he knows now that this dream is taunting him with the endless outcomes that could’ve happened if he’d been brave enough to blurt out the question, but Steve’s afraid to know those outcomes. He’s afraid that they might be better than the real one, if even marginally.

Still, nothing can change the fact that not even two weeks after Steve had failed to ask Natasha to marry him, she left for Russia and didn’t come back for a year.


End file.
